


The Trophy and the Knife

by inkedinserendipity



Series: And Taking Names [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, and she's certainly not going to let this girl suffer alone, even if she can't do much to help, morgana never really was one to let injustices slide, she'll do what little she can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-21 13:45:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7389379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedinserendipity/pseuds/inkedinserendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The witch-hunter Halig has captured a beautiful trophy indeed - a Druid girl, abandoned by her own, set to die. Touched by the girl's plight, aware of her connection with Merlin (and, maybe, something even more powerful than he), Morgana decides to bestow upon the girl a gift. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>If you'd like to suggest any further plots to expand upon, feel free to drop by my tumblr at inkedinserendipity and leave a message. There's a chance your idea would strike me and end up as part of the series!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's recommended that you read Parts 1 and 2 before Part 3. But in quick summary, Taking Names is an AU in which Merlin divulges the secret of his magic to Morgana early on; he tells her when she first suffers from nightmares and returns, heartbroken, from the Druid camp. Afterward, she demands to help him when he encounters threats to the kingdom and to Arthur. Together, they may have the power to alter destiny.

“ -and he got us all a round at the tavern, can you believe?” 

“What was ‘is name?”

“Dunno, why?”

“I gotta hit ‘im up, if you know what I mean.” 

“Oh come off it, Helga, he was far too good-lookin’ for you. All dark-haired, roguish grin. ‘Sides, Guard and peasant? Noble one, especially? The King would never hear of it.”

“I can never know until I try -”

Morgana shuffles her robe more thoroughly around her legs, shaking her head to dispel the red-cloaked guards’ idle gossip. In her head she turns over and over the syllables of Merlin’s spell, trying to memorize them, feeling their power thrumming through her bones even before intonation. Her hands fumble, trembling nervously around the cords by her neck, and tighten the hood around the crown her head. 

With back pressed against the wall, Morgana peers around the corner quickly. In a movement just as swift, she pulls her face back in, heart beating wildly. Against her eyelids she can see two guards, apparently chatting about some young man in the tavern, silhouetted against the firelight of the torch several feet above their heads. To the right, the door, illuminated by the starlight in the open sky above. The walls looming high on either side and the cobblestone, rough and coarse, beneath her scarcely-covered feet in peasant’s shoes. 

Were Morgana to walk out now, she would certainly be noticed by both guards immediately, intoxicated or not. The strains of conversation continue behind her, rowdy and emphatic. Morgana takes a deep breath, steeling herself, and whispers the spell in the quietest voice possible. 

The effects aren’t apparent to her, she realizes after a moment of panic, staring at her fully-formed right hand. Of course. Invisibility would be horribly disorienting if it applied to the eyes of the caster. So Morgana just has to trust that her magic and Merlin’s knowledge worked. She raises her head high. If worst comes to worst, she can bribe the Guards with tavern money to keep her presence here unmentioned, and projecting an air of confidence would raise less questions. 

Morgana’s about to stride out and into the mini-square until she wonders, abruptly, if invisibility spells involve sound mufflers and decides she doesn’t want to find out the hard way. After one panic-wrenching near-fall, Morgana regains her balance and nigh-on tip-toes forward. With breath caught silently in her lungs, Morgana treads silently across the terrifyingly open area, caught between staring at the guards and the fear that her invisible gaze would attract attention. 

But she makes it, silently, and presses herself against the wall to squeeze through the slightly-opened gate. Safely out of the view of the guards, Morgana takes ten more even strides before moving back against the wall, clinging to the shadows. With a quick muttered string of words, she releases her hold on the spell, already feeling its drain on her magic lift and energy suffuse back into her bones. She shakes her head again, dispelling the frisson of anxious fear that shoots through her spine, and adopts a limping shuffle toward the center of the town square.

Not fifty feet in front of her looms Halig’s barbaric cage, the moonlight glinting off the top like spears. Morgana takes a deep breath, pointedly not wondering if she would ever face the inside of a similar cage, and walks right up to the bars. 

The girl inside is sleeping. Morgana adopts a confident facade, pulling it over her face like a second skin, and whispers “Freya.” 

The girl wakes with a start, looking around her with wide, pale eyes. Despite the panic clear in her gaze, she offers no defense or startled yelp. “Freya,” Morgana tries again, looking for a response.

Finally, Freya’s eyes fix on her own. “Who are you?” the girl asks. 

“My name is Lady Morgana.” 

Freya recoils from the title as if the words were knives. Morgana hastens to reassure her. “I am a friend of Merlin’s. I am part of Uther’s court, yes, but I hold no sympathy for his views.” Despite the conviction in her words, an innate fear of being caught lowers her voice. 

“Oh,” Freya says softly, steel shining in her eyes. “Why are you here?” 

Despite the solid, magic- and rust- proofed iron bars that trap her inside, Freya maintains a cool demeanor, not scrabbling backward or making idle threats. Morgana can see why Merlin is so fond of her. She feels a pang of painfully legitimate regret that she will die soon. 

She could not tell Merlin what she’d Seen. This girl - this woman - must become the Lady of the Lake. And to do that, she must die at Arthur’s hands. Morgana saw her run through on Arthur’s blade, Freya’s spirit railing against the animal form locked away. Then Merlin’s grieving face, normally so cheerful, drawn and keening in anguish. 

Upon waking with a hoarse scream from her dream, Morgana fled to the infirmary. She barely checked that Merlin was asleep before pleading counsel.

Gaius studied Morgana’s face, still pinched from exhaustion, fear and surprisingly acute grief, and seen in Morgana something that even her formidable powers could not discern. Then, with a heavy sigh, he took Morgana’s hand and bade her sit. 

She did. For a long while, Gaius stared in the smoking potion on which he’d been working when she’d burst into his chambers, which was turning a deep blue even as he thought. Just when Morgana was about to repeat her question, for fear that Gaius had forgotten she was here, he looked up at her and said that even the gravest of destinies can be tweaked. “Do whatever you think best,” he told her tiredly. 

Before she left, she saw the barest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips, his fond glance back toward where Merlin slept, and for a brief moment wondered. 

Now, Morgana stands in front of Freya, fully equipped with the knowledge of her demise, and the dagger she offers seems paltry in comparison. 

Freya studies it keenly, running both eyes along the polished edge. Morgana took a whetstone to it herself, after returning to her chambers, letting the rhythmic _snick_ s settle her shaking nerves. There, in her chamber, knife in hand and stone in the other, Morgana chose. 

“My father made it, before he died,” she tells Freya quietly. She’s not entirely sure why she’s giving this to Freya, except that it feels right. She wonders vaguely if her penchant for helping miscreant magical children is going to get her in trouble one day. Maybe she wants to give back to the magical community that has done her such good. Maybe it’s pity, maybe it’s empathy. Or maybe it’s something farther-seeing, something more powerful than any of those. “I would like for you to have it. I would like for you to look on this blade, use it how you will, and never feel alone.” 

Freya stares at her, astounded, finally tearing her eyes from Morgana’s knife, one of the last relics of Gorlois. “You’re giving me a weapon?” she asks in a small, hoarse voice, filled with respect and awe. 

“I am.”

“Why?”

All Morgana can say is a truthful “I don’t know. Just that I want you to have it.” 

Freya reaches out with trembling fingers to wrap her hands around the blade. Morgana watches as the blade leaves her hands, fighting down a reflexive urge to snatch it back. “Thank you, Lady Morgana. I promise you that I will never use it for ill.”

No. The knife is Freya’s, now, and Morgana gives it willingly. For Freya, Morgana manages a smile, warm against the cool night. “I never doubted it. Take care of yourself, and take care of Merlin, Freya.” 

With another string of whispered words and a last, parting nod, Morgana vanishes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin needs a dress. Morgana's no fool.

“Morgana!” Merlin calls in a frantic voice, hardly remembering to knock before yelling at her door. “Morgana, do you have a moment?”

When Morgana opens the doors, Merlin nearly bowls her over entering. She assesses him with one quick swipe of her eyes, then nods briefly to Gwen, who’d paused in arranging flowers by the fireplace to see what’d gotten Merlin in such a terrible hurry. “Morgana, I need to ask a favor,” he asks between panting breaths. 

“Slow down,” she commands. His legs are shaking, his face flushed, and his hands are trembling more than can be attributed to a sprint across the castle. “Sit, have a glass of water, then we can talk.” 

“I don’t have time -”

“Yes, you do.” Morgana points sharply toward the bed. She nearly pushes him into a sitting position. It’s a miracle the boy can walk, honestly, his legs are so twitchy. 

As soon as he sits, Gwen picks up a chair and bars the door. It’s a testament to how distressed Merlin is that he doesn’t notice the chair sliding over the door handles. He watches Morgana instead. She crosses the room to the pitcher of water ever-present on the table, listening to his frantic breathing as she calmly pours him a cup. Out of the corner of her eye, Morgana watches Gwen give the flowers one last plump before picking up a duster and disappearing behind the divider on the far side of the room. 

By the time Morgana returns to her bedside, Merlin’s breathing has smoothed out a bit, sounding less jolty and more like he’s got an actual, functioning pair of lungs. “What’s wrong?” Morgana asks gently, shoving the cup into his hands.

“I need to borrow a dress,” Merlin blurts.

From Gwen’s place behind the divider, Morgana can hear her a dull _thud_ , like Gwen’s stubbed her toe on the bathtub. Even Morgana can barely choke down a shocked laugh. “I’m sorry?” 

“A dress,” he repeats, making a vague spherical motion with his hands, eyes alight with distress. “I need a dress, can I borrow one?”

“Merlin, what on earth do you need a _dress_ for?”

“I can’t tell you,” he replies, anguished. 

“Merlin,” she reprimands sternly. “If you are to use my clothes you are to tell me what they are for. I will not reveal anything, you can trust me.” 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he says desperately, and he doesn’t need to look toward the divider for Morgana to put two and two together to realize he’s talking about Gwen. Has to be magical, then. Merlin trusts her with about everything else. 

Gwen must sense something’s wrong, because she steps out from behind the divider and walks toward the full tray of fruit. She picks it up and bows, standing in front of a half-cleaned fireplace, and says “I should go refill your tray, my Lady. You have been suffering from blackberry deprivation for far too long. I will be back shortly.” With a sweep of her skirts and a small reassuring smile in Merlin’s direction, she exits the room, expertly dismantling the chair and setting it to one side. 

Once again, Morgana swallows over a laugh. The tray is practically overflowing with the ripe purple berries. Maybe, Morgana hopes, Gwen will treat herself to a few on her way down to the kitchens. She deserves them. 

Shaking her head at herself, Morgana turns back to Merlin. “What is it?”

“I...” he trails off, scratching his nails over his knuckles, eyes flitting from the fireplace to the door and back. Clearly, he still has some reservations.

Morgana prods him gently on the shoulder. “Merlin, you’ve told me everything. The troll, the witchfinder, the warrior Morgause. I’ll hardly turn you in now.”

“It’s not that,” he protests, eyes glancing off hers. “Can’t I just...?”

“No.”

“Morgana, please -”

“No, Merlin,” she says firmly. “Whatever this is, if anyone were to find my clothes on some sort of damning evidence would condemn me to the pyre, and I’m not willing to chance that. Whatever this is, it’s got you mightily upset, because ordinarily you’d think about that before asking.” He winces. Freya’s got a knife with the seal of Gorlois etched in the handle, that should be damning evidence enough, dress or not (maybe that was a bad idea, giving her the knife, but Morgana can’t bring herself to regret it - the Druid girl can protect herself better now, and should she be caught at least Morgana can deal with Uther), so handing over clothes doesn’t make that much of a difference. Morgana more wants answers than anything. “I’m betting it’s Freya,” she continues, and the terror that flashes across his face is more than enough confirmation. “Now, Merlin. Why do you want the dress?”

“You know about Freya?” Merlin chokes. 

His eyes are practically haunted. He must love her, Morgana realizes abruptly, staring at his face. Her heart drops like a stone. Sight shows her many things, but this she had not foreseen. Damn him. Damn Merlin for loving too easily and hurting so much.

For a second, Morgana contemplates telling him everything, Freya’s destiny as the Lady of the Lake be damned. There must be some other avenue, some other way to solve their problems. Clearly, Merlin loves Freya with every part of him - losing her would break something within him. 

But, powerful as Morgana is, even she cannot toy so loosely with the hands of Fate. With a deep sigh, Morgana adopts a confused expression. “Of course, she’s been locked up in the town square for ages. Stays there during broad daylight, you know. She has magic, so you would want to break her out.” 

“No one can know,” Merlin implores. If possible, his movements become even more frantic, leg jiggling against the side of her bed and hands twitching around his thighs. “Please, Morgana, I just - I can’t let her die.” 

“I understand.” And she does. In fact, her mind’s already made up. While she will not tell Merlin about Freya’s destiny, perhaps - perhaps she can tweak it, just a bit. What was it Gaius had said, about changing destiny? To alter the course of the future irrevocably is foolhardy and incredibly dangerous, Morgana knows. But this one thing, at least, she can do. Freya deserves better. Merlin deserves better.

In one fluid motion she stands, beckoning for Merlin to follow, and leads him to her closet. Freya cannot wear red, anything crimson garners too much attention. Orange and yellow are similarly too bright, colors reserved for nobility, and green, although more common, is similarly sketchy. Purple and blue are both options, Morgana supposes, leafing through her dresses as if selecting an apple from a vine, though brown would work better. A common color in the lower towns. Would draw less attention. 

Within seconds, Morgana selects and presents to Merlin a dress in dull beige. “This should keep attention off of you,” she explains swiftly. She raises herself on her toes and grabs a matching ribbon and bracelet, then wraps them into one neat bundle and hands them over. “Head down the lower towns. This is a particularly common color near the butcher’s shop. If you meet any guards, explain that he’s employed you as message-runners. He often hires orphans, it shouldn’t arouse too much suspicion.”

Merlin’s eyes grow wide, gaze flicking between Morgana’s tightly controlled face and the dress proffered in her hands. “How - how do you know this?”

“Go, Merlin,” she snaps, and shoves the garments more vigorously toward his face.

“I...I can’t -”

“Yes, you can. Take the clothes and get out of here.”

Still stunned at her generosity, Merlin accepts the gift with shaking hands. “I can never repay you,” he says softly.

“You already have,” she dismisses his concerns. “Now go on, Merlin. You don’t have much time.” 

Merlin doesn’t have a response to that. When he nods, the gesture contains an alarming amount of finality. He sets off toward the door with stumbling backward steps and reaches it at a near-sprint. 

Morgana watches him leave. Something strange prods at the back of her mind, and once she realizes what it is, the feeling is obvious. “Wait,” Morgana stills him as his hand rests on the doorknob, ready for a sprint along the early-morning corridors. He half-turns toward her, nearly vibrating with the urge to leave, to flee. “Merlin, are you coming back?”

Merlin doesn’t turn to face her, still staring straight at the wood. Her heart plummets at his silence. He’s leaving so much behind, saying so many final farewells, for the Druid girl. At least, she consoles herself, a weak sort of consolation indeed, he’d come to say goodbye to her. 

Camelot will be much lonelier without him. 

In the end, he doesn’t need to respond. Merlin lets his silence speak for himself and, without another word, vanishes through the doorframe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all over.

“She had a knife,” Merlin tells her quietly, staring at the leaping flames. 

Morgana’s remarkably unsurprised to come back to her chambers and find a budding warlock appropriating part of her floor for his grief. She locks the door behind her and seats herself with slow, deliberate movements, her dress pooling into a ring of fine velvet next to him. Her dress is accumulating dust and filth already, she can tell, but she can’t bring herself to care. Instead, she joins him watching the flames flicker in their hearth, leaping toward the rocky ceiling with greedy claws. The sight of fire roaring in her chamber sends a frisson of fear through her, but she grits her teeth and tamps down on it. 

“I’m sorry.”

They both know it’s grief more than lack of understanding that drives the words from her mouth, but Merlin repeats himself anyway. “A knife. A beautiful one, with a noble seal.” He pauses, staring unblinkingly into the flames. “She never used it. Kept it tucked in her sleeve.” 

“Even to defend herself?” 

“Even to defend herself,” Merlin repeats tiredly. Morgana breaks from her contemplation of the flames to study Merlin’s face.

If possible, he looks even worse than he did when he’d entered her chambers yesterday in a panic, asking for a dress. His face is pale and wan, cheeks flushed from crying, eyes lidded with grief and arms drawn tight around his knees. The firelight flickers off his eyes and the moisture screening them. “She never used it,” he says, voice rising, “n-never. Not even to d-defend herself.”

Morgana was right, then, to give to the Druid girl. A pang of loss flashes through her. Maybe, in another life, Freya would have been a valuable ally. 

Merlin starts to shake. “Damn it, Morgana, why didn’t she? Why d-didn’t she run, or...or something? She could’ve...she could’ve...”

“She could’ve killed,” Morgana completes his sentence for him. Merlin’s trembling grows even more violent, the shaking of leaves before a wailing thunderstorm. “She could’ve driven her claws through Arthur’s body. Or any of his Knights. But she didn’t.” 

Merlin’s face crumples at her words. Not allowing herself to feel awkward, Morgana lays a hand on his back and draws his face to her side, reaching her chin to rest on top of his head. At the touch of her hand, he breaks down into sobs, loud and heaving. 

Morgana hurts for him. Empathy interferes with rational thought as she watches his shoulders shake under the pressure of everything he’s lost - she can feel a pain of her own blooming in her chest. 

He curses again, and again, cursing the Gods and magic and Halig and Uther and himself. Morgana starts to rock him, a little bit, until his furious words fade to nothing. A distant part of her wonders at how young Merlin really is, if he counts in the number of magical children she’s taken under her wing. 

Finally, Merlin gathers the strength to dry his tears, wiping his face and nose on his sleeve. Wordlessly, Morgana offers him a delicate handkerchief from her back pocket - she’d hand-sewn the pouch into the dress herself, irritated at the lack of practicality in courtly wear - and offers it to him. He accepts it without question. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeats gently, when his breathing stabilizes. 

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” he says, looking more drained than emotional. If it weren’t for the inevitable gossip, Morgana would offer him part of her couch to sleep on. He looks a bit as though he could keel over dead from exhaustion, physical and emotional, at any moment. 

“Still.” 

For several seconds, the pair of them do nothing but stare into the flames. Then Merlin extricates himself from Morgana, gritting his teeth. “Morgana,” he says slowly. For the first time that evening, he turns to look at her, eyes still swollen. “That was the seal of Gorlois, on her knife.” 

Morgana’s breathing catches. “Interesting,” she replies neutrally.

But his tearstained eyes see right through her. Even as he begins to speak again, he reaches a hand into his pockets. “I don’t need to know exactly what happened. Just...thank you, Morgana.” He pulls out the knife and offers it to her, hilt-first. The symbol of Gorlois glistens in the firelight, causing a tremor of nostalgia to run down Morgana’s spine. “I know how much your father means to you. I know what you risked, getting caught, just...just for Freya.” Merlin sucks in a deep breath. Morgana watches him, eyes wide and tearing again. His face seems blurry through her eyes. “So thank you. I...cannot express how much it means.”

Morgana watches him, studies his face, the tremor in his arms and the steel shining in his eyes - the same steel Freya had, the same steel embedded in the knife. 

For the second time in as many weeks, Morgana comes to a decision. “No.” She pushes on his hands, and surprise makes them unresisting. “Keep it.” 

Merlin looks at her, mouth opened slightly in astonishment. “But -”

“No buts,” she tells him quietly, staring him straight in the eyes. “I want you to have it, Merlin. Use it well.”

“Morgana...” he says quietly, holding the hilt in front of her. It weaves tantalizingly. “This is all you have of your father.” 

“I have his memory,” she replies. “He is a part of me, yes. But the goodness that he was - that is not just for me. I entrust it to someone who will continue as he did, someone who gives their life for what they believe in.” She’s not sure who she’s talking about, Merlin or Freya. 

“Thank you,” he says in an awestruck voice, wrapping his hands around the hilt again and tucking it back in his pocket. “Thank you so much.” 

Morgana lets the silence speak for her. Her father’s seal flashes before her eyes, engraved lovingly in its hilt, and Morgana wonders what that says about the knife, that the symbol of power would face toward the user and not the edge. Perhaps the knife’s was not meant to harm. Perhaps its power lay in the wielder, not the blade. 

All the more fitting that Merlin, ever-loving Merlin, should keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a planned next installment in this series, but it's going to take a long time to write. If you'd like to suggest any ideas for a shorter blurb, visit me at inkedinserendipity.tumblr.com !


End file.
